It's a normal rainy day somewhere when June is ending and the rains are just starting to gear up on their pouring end. I've been roaming around the streets, eating and wondering, travelling around the city which forms the routine course of days lately with my best friend and childhood sweetheart. We have decided to visit a bookstore that I love exploring. Its brand doesn't matter but the fact that unexpected titles make their way to my sight. I am particularly distraught today, for something seems to be eating me up since quite sometime. I forage through those books, look for sights that have yet to be wowed at. I carefully pick up the two Calvino copies of short stories, which I had previously preferred to stay away from. I start reading, and the cold, the drudge and the thoughts all seem slowly to vaporize in an unknown world. I am reading about the art of being human, of the collapses and the uprisings of hearts that are contorted and civilized at the same time. I pause, reflect, move on, catch empty stares on my way and return to the page of black and dull grey font and paper. No sooner have I started reading, I am ahh-ing on the one liners that compose and form a novel for me. I am flowing with the words but also with something nameless behind them, something unformed and raw. How words just seem to signify worlds of images and sketches of individual perceptions! They try and convey the unnamed and profound only to castrate and degenerate it into something plastic and hard. But for everything, when I raise my head from the book, I discover I have been transformed into something less formidable and gloomy, something that has just managed to touch itself in some part or corner and has been revived and refueled. I look at my best friend and sigh and sigh of contentment and relief. How everything materializes when I am around a tome of books and binders. What must those collected bound pages contain that transforms into the warmest hug the universe can provide?
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